


Hazy

by Cinnamonbookworm



Series: certain ends of five [1]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Angst, F/M, IT'S FIVE YEARS LATER AND EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE, Past Relationship(s), Team Dynamics, Time Jump, University, buzzfeed voice: You'll Never Believe Who's Living Together, lots of implications that none of you are going to like, technically an au bc this would never happen in canon but, who am i to judge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-08 14:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7760941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamonbookworm/pseuds/Cinnamonbookworm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“What do you want to do after this?” Nino had asked once, when they were lying on the floor of Adrien’s bedroom, after a particularly tiring round of trying to catch flying potato chips in their mouths.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“What do you mean?” Adrien had wondered. “Like for dinner?”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Nino had laughed at that, and his head had turned towards his friend, neck resting on the pad of one of his black and blue headphones. “No, man, like in life. After we graduate.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Or: I planned to write a oneshot centered around one of my favorite tropes and the angst just kept slipping out and I would say I'm sorry but I'm not have fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What If I Went and Lost Myself?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [something old](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7732855) by [demistories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/demistories/pseuds/demistories). 



> Things this fic was supposed to be:  
> -a oneshot  
> -appropriately angsty  
> -unresolved
> 
> Things this fic is:  
> -a three parter  
> -an angst spiral  
> -somehow got resolved at the end I think idk what's going on really
> 
> Really, just blame Téa. It was her time jump fic that inspired this, after all.

_What if I fall and hurt myself_

_Would you know how to fix me?_

_What if I went and lost myself_

_Would you know where to find me?_

_If I forgot who I am_

_Would you please remind me?_

_Oh, cause without you things go **hazy**_

 

 

 

“What do you want to do after this?” Nino had asked once, when they were lying on the floor of Adrien’s bedroom, after a particularly tiring round of trying to catch flying potato chips in their mouths.

“What do you mean?” Adrien had wondered. “Like for dinner?”

Nino had laughed at that, and his head had turned towards his friend, neck resting on the pad of one of his black and blue headphones. “No, man, like in life. After we graduate.”

“I guess I’ve never thought about it,” Adrien remembers saying, even years later. “I guess I’d go to university. Move to some quiet place. I’m tired of big cities.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s funny, the way getting what you want can feel like.

Adrien takes a deep breath, letting the cool air coming off the lake fill his lungs. The Mont du Chat might be a tough climb, but it’s worth it for this view. Everything here is so peaceful it’s almost like the world’s come to a stand still. He’s tempted to get lost in it. The blues of the water and the greens of the hills might just be the prettiest colors he’s ever seen, especially in the afternoon’s light.

He can’t stay, though. For once in the four years he’s been here, he has to be somewhere important enough to not bask in the beauty of this setting. It’s not quite the same pressure of his childhood; the ticking of the clocks and the clicking of Nathalie’s heels and every moment scheduled down to the millisecond. Technically, he can be late to this one.

However, it’s rude to keep someone waiting for you. He’s retained that lesson from his youth, at the very least.

Adrien turns and makes the march down the paved road.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t know how long the vineyard’s been there; he’s never bothered to ask. All he knows is it’s a quiet place he can come on the way back to the city from the mountain. The people there are nice, and don’t ask too many questions about how he can afford such expensive wine. They barely recognize his face, either.

It hasn’t changed much in the years since he left the city; he’s still got that softness in his cheeks that had pushed him into the industry in the first place. There’s no giant billboards in wine country, though, and he’s grateful for that. No constant reminders of all the ways he couldn’t make someone else’s dream for him come true.

And anyways, it’s a good place for a date. He’s brought a few people here, when he really wants them to see who he is beyond his name, without _Agreste_ branded on his forehead. They came and they went. They saw and they drank and they laughed and they left. And, in a way he’s okay with it.

The woman sitting at the table when he makes his way through the building to the patio, however, is a more permanent fixture of his life. Sure, she’s come and she’s gone, and a few times he’s gone as well, but they can’t quite seem to shake each other loose. Which is why she’s here, scanning the green laminated wine list with her precise fingers.

She wears her hair down now, and he supposes it makes her look older. Maybe it just makes her look more like her mother. A few other things are different. She’s traded in the ballet flats for small black heels, and the capri pants and cardigans for blazers and pencil skirts. If he didn’t already know she could conquer a small nation on her own, her outfit would give it away.

“Hey,” he shouts from across the patio with a smile. “It’s been a long time.”

She looks up from her wine list, and he’s a little more than shocked when her face lights up at his presence. Peach lips part into a grin, blue eyes grow wide with surprise.

“Adrikins!” she shouts, getting up from her seat, and he laughs at the old nickname. They haven’t used it in years, but he supposes it’s fitting, considering the occasion.

An older American couple a few feet away from him gives them a strange look as Chloe Bourgeois slams into him, almost knocking him off his feet. He’s taller than her now. He’d forgotten that.

Adrien gives them a “what can you do?” grin and hugs her back.

“I’ve been waiting for almost six whole minutes now!” she shouts. “I thought a bear had eaten you up there!”

She lets go of the hug, bringing her hands down to grab his forearms. He tries not to crinkle her blazer. “Chlo, there aren’t any bears up there.”

She brushes off the fact. “Ah, Adrien, you know I don’t go outside. How am I supposed to know what is and isn’t lurking on that mountain?”

“You could climb it with me sometime,” he offers.

“In _these_ shoes?” she asks.

“Good point.”

Chloe guides him back to her table, regaling him with the latest news from the Paris hotels. Her hands fly wildly in the air, with the same level of dramatics she’s always had. She always seems to make a scene wherever she goes, but her only audience now is him and the Americans, one of which seems to be walking towards them.

Adrien stops her for a second, and turns toward the older man, who’s rolled his cuffs to his elbows, revealing the silver hairs on his tanned arms. “Ta soeur est très jolie,” he says, not stumbling over the words, but with an accent strong enough to let Adrien know his first assumption was right; they are American.

“She’s not my sister,” Adrien clarifies, with a look at Chloe. “But I’m sure she appreciates the compliment.”

Chloe rolls her eyes, but gives her appreciation anyway. “Thank you,” she says, with a flip of her platinum blonde hair. “I do try.”

They thank him again, and sit down together. The wine comes and Chloe clinks their glasses together in celebration of them being reunited.

“How often do you see them?” he asks, after they’ve emptied their glasses and Chloe’s taken to checking her reflection in her sunglasses.

“Sometimes,” she says, which isn’t _really_ an answer, but Adrien’s not in the mood to press. “We’re not the only ones who are busy, though.”

Chloe’s eyes trail a butterfly on the fence next to them.

“Has it really been five years?”

Her voice is quiet when she answers. “Yeah.”

Adrien tries not to let his thoughts wander to that night years ago when everything had changed to such an impossible degree. Another reason he likes being out here instead of in the city; no one here remembers.

“Paris is mostly the same,” Chloe says. “Still has tourists. Still as crowded as ever.” A soft hand comes out and flicks the butterfly—no, not a butterfly, a hawkmoth—away. “And the little bugs haven’t gotten any friendlier.”

 

* * *

 

 

Marinette sits on the steps of the Conservatory, sipping from her coffee. It’s a good kind of warmth on a day like today. It’s supposed to be summer, but the clouds came this morning and haven’t gone away.

If she has to wait very much longer, she’s considering moving inside just in case it _does_ rain. She moves the paper bag next to her a little closer to her body, ready to grab it and go at the first sign of water falling from the sky. So far, it seems the clouds are just there to brood.

Everyone seems to be brooding today. Her boss, the other interns, even the girl sitting across from her on the metro. If she’s being honest, Marinette’s even started to feel it herself. She can’t tell if this bad mood everyone’s in was caused by the weather, or if the weather’s just an odd side effect of someone’s bad mood.

It’s not that far fetched of an idea, after all…

This is why she needs to stop waiting and start moving, because, when she’s all alone in the silence like this, she can’t help but let her thoughts wander to that place. It doesn’t help when the sky’s all dark like this, just like it was the day it all ended.

She should really take up running again. It would probably help her anxiety. She lost her rhythm with it at some point, although she can’t place her finger on when it was. A lot of habits, good and bad, have gotten lost in her memories like that.

It’s what happens when the worst parts of life can’t be fixed with a simple move anymore.

She’d misses those magic fixes at times like this, when she’s worrying about the state of her roommate, whose class should have ended five minutes ago and who still isn’t out here yet. She really should pull out her phone and send another text…

“Mare Bear!” a voice yells from behind her, and she turns to find the high-top sneakers she was waiting for coming down the stone steps to where she sits. Nino Lahiffe gives her his best finger guns as he plops down on the steps next to her. “Sorry to keep you waiting! I just _had_ to know what the speaker’s thoughts on music theory in the digital age because you know how psyched I get about that stuff.”

Marinette smiles at his excitement, lifting her coffee to her mouth again. “I know.”

“And you should’ve heard the way he talked about the applications of digital sound within orchestra! Did you know there was this one concert in the States where all the sound was emitted by cell phone ring tones? Like, how cool is that?”

“The absolute coolest.”

“Speaking of temperatures,” he says, glancing at the cup in her hand. “Is that a hot coffee you have there?”

“I got one for you too,” Marinette answers his question before he can ask it, raising the paper bag beside her. “And picked up some donuts from my dad.”

He pulls out the box, which she’d placed side-ways earlier to make it fit, and opens it. “You’re the best, Mari, you know that?”

Marinette laughs a little. “I’m just being a good friend.”

“A _really_ good friend.”

“Shut up.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Have you heard from Alya yet?” Nino asks, leaning back in their worn grey armchair, folding his arms behind his head. His attempt at being casual with the question is not lost on her.

“You know, you never were that good at being casual when it comes to her,” Marinette jokes, pointing her fork at him accusingly.

“That is—That is _not true_. I am totally calm and cool at every moment when it comes to her, I—”

“She’s flying out tomorrow. I told her we’d pick her up at the airport.”

“You did _what?_ ” he yells, eyes wide with what may be panic.

Marinette shrugs. “She’s my best friend. What was I supposed to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know. _Ask me?_ What am I going to say to her? What are _we_ going to say to her? Damn it, I have to get that mixtape finished.” He flies up out of the armchair and around the room, lifting piles of his sheet music and stacks of her fabric in his search.

“What are you calling it?” Marinette asks, conspiratorily.

“If you’re asking if I’m going with “Sorry We Dated And Broke Up Without Telling You,” that’s a terrible name, first of all, and second of all, we are _not_ spilling the beans on her like that.” Nino sighs when he finds the napkin he’d written songs on when they’d first started planning to actually _tell her_. Back then it had only been like three songs. That was three years ago.

Now it’s a meticulously crafted (if anything on a paper napkin can be called that, which Marinette certainly thinks it can), often-changed list of about 50 songs that Nino is progressively adding and removing from a private Spotify playlist. Sometimes he remixes them if he’s feeling really emotional about it.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Marinette protests. “Sometimes things are just better when you rip the band aid off.”

“Rip it off and let her see the scar that healed three years ago,” Nino mutters under his breath, but she hears it anyway. “I still don’t get why you haven’t just told her. You are _best friends,_ after all.”

“First of all,” Marinette says, “you were a part of this too. And, second of all, I just haven’t had the time.”

“You’ve had _three years_!”

“Yeah, but it’s just never a good time. This will be a good time. I promise.”

“If you say so,” Nino mumbles, walking with his napkin list back to his laptop. “Because I still need one more song to make this convey what it needs to.”

Marinette thinks for a moment, going over all the records Nino owns and all the songs she has saved on _her_ Spotify. “Found Out About You by the Gin Blossoms,” she decides.

Nino stops dead in his tracks. “How did I not think of that one?”

 

* * *

 

 

Adrien rests his forehead against the window of Chloe’s white sports car as they drive towards Paris. The glass is cold; a quiet rain has started falling as they’ve gotten closer to the city.

He hasn’t missed this. The greyness. The fog. The large buildings in differing shades of white, grey, and black.

There are so many good things about Paris, and, usually, he’d count the city’s history as one of them, but today, as they reach the five year mark, it’s not something he’d like to relish in.

He likes the mountains, the vineyards, the expanses of green and blue that let him feel far away. Adrien had tried to get as far as possible after graduation. So far his record is five hours away.

Currently, this means five hours in a car with Chloe. He’s not too worried about it, though; he’s missed her, after all. Also, she tends to begin to fall asleep after the first few hours of driving. Or, at least, she gets tired enough to let him touch her car, which she’s been referring to as her “baby.”

“You know, for someone who’s infamous for rejecting marriage proposals, you sure have a lot of babies, Chlo.”

“What?” she shrugs. “It’s not my fault cars are prettier than boys are.” She turns her head for a second to wink at him. “Except for you. You’re the prettiest boy I know. Even if you have taken to wearing flannel.”

“It’s not _that_ far of a leap from button ups, you know.”

“Tell that to Marinette,” Chloe says, and Adrien wishes he didn’t flinch at the sound of her name. “You should hear her talk about the variations of buttons and their history. It’s quite sleep-inducing. I mean I _like_ fashion, but shut up about buttons and let me see if this blouse actually makes me look _good_ , you know what I mean?”

“Do you see her a lot?” he asks, and he’s trying to not sound like he cares, he really is. These years away might have almost convinced him of that, if not for the fact that he’s picturing Marinette taking Chloe’s measurements for the pinstriped blouse she’s wearing and blabbing on about buttons. He can’t help but smile. It’s not his fault that she just seems to exist in a permanent state of goodness.

“Not more than I _have to_ , but it’s gotten harder and harder, because your father keeps dragging her around to all the parties like some lapdog. She tells me it’s called ‘networking’ and I keep telling her that she’s _not_ Spiderman, so, unless she’s actually working on those fishnets I commissioned I don’t see what she’s doing talking about _nets_.”

“Chloe,” Adrien pokes her. “You _know_ what networking is.”

She smiles a smug smile. “I know. I just like getting under her skin.”

“Well, you always were the best at stinging.”

He shouldn’t have said that, but he couldn’t resist the pun. Her face falls a little bit at the remark. He gets it. They’ve all been a little on edge when it comes to certain words for the past few years. He still catches his breath whenever he sees a stray.

“Just because you miss him doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me,” Chloe protests, and she even _sounds_ hurt.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. My jokes just haven’t been the same since—”

“Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to talk about it. I know it hurts.”

It does hurt. He lost too many people in such a short time. Sometimes he forgets she did too. Sometimes he forgets he was one of them.

 

* * *

 

 

Chloe falls asleep around hour three. She climbs into the back of the car, slips off her heels, and wraps a comforter with a threadcount higher than the number of miles they’ve driven around her. Then she proceeds to make quiet little noises for the rest of the trip.

Adrien doesn’t mind; hearing Chloe mumble incoherently keeps him awake at the very least. He turns on the radio too, and lets the soft jazz of the late night stations wash over him. He’ll have to ask Nino for another music recommendation when he sees him, since the last record he borrowed from him is so overplayed Adrien’s concerned he’s close to breaking it.

Chloe’s GPS makes a noise. “Continue onto A6B,” it says, in a voice with a suspiciously Australian accent. Adrien supposes the accent on the GPS is one of Chloe’s more eccentric quirks. Kind of like how she refuses to repeat outfits.

Adrien shifts lanes, and takes a deep breath as the skyline of Paris begins to appear in the distance. He’d left the city on such bad terms with it, but now…

It really is home. Maybe not his best home, or his favorite, but, at the very least, it’s one of them. He didn’t spend years on its rooftops to not know its skylines like the back of his hand.

“Bumba, bumba,” Chloe mumbles, and he smiles because she must be feeling it too; the call back to the city as they used to know it. The city as it was back when it wasn’t a jungle but a jungle gym. When it was alive and they were the heart of it.

The city has a new heart now, from what Adrien’s heard. And it’s not the only one.

He listens to the rain, actively pouring now, and thinks of a simpler time. When hearts were all in the right places and there weren’t all these complications. There were simpler times in the rain, he thinks. Or maybe, rain just makes everything simpler.

Maybe if it had been raining that day, he would’ve stayed. But it hadn’t. Instead, the clouds had held themselves back until he’d left the city. He’d held back his own waterworks until he’d left. It’s much easier to see yourself at a university in the hills when breaking down doesn’t feel like an option within the city limits.

He can almost picture Nathalie in the seat next to him, cold hand awkwardly patting his knee in an attempt at comfort as he leaned his head against the window that day. The only difference between now and then is that this time he’s driving.

He hasn’t seen her in so long. Not since his last visit home around Christmas. She’d been the one to sit next to him at the dinner. Her on his left, Chloe on his right. A table full of other guests who he barely knew. Her hair had gotten redder; no longer just a streak but some ombre as well. It had suited her, really.

In his absence, she’s become the slightly unconventional queen of the Agreste mansion. It’s a role that suits her, he thinks. Especially in those years when his father had shut out everyone and everything not related to his work.

He’d been at Christmas too, sitting on the other end of the table, coldly cutting his pork as he’d made small talk with the business associates he’d invited, barely looking over in Adrien’s direction.

Gabriel Agreste _had_ showed an emotion at dinner that night, though. He’d been so proud when he talked about his new protege; the girl who, it was rumored, could do anything with a piece of silk.

Chloe had said she was keeping busy. That’s good, he thinks. She deserves to live a full and busy life. She deserves to have a place where she can forget. He knows how valuable it can be.

 

* * *

 

 

“Chlo,” Adrien murmurs, softly shaking her shoulder through her cream-colored blanket. “We’re here.”

The street they grew up on seems smaller now that they’re older; the pavement between their houses less of an uncrossable gap than a bridge between them. On his right, Le Grand Paris rises through the night, a few stories taller than he remembers. On his left, the Agreste Mansion, as stone cold and silent as ever.

“Home sweet home,” she mumbles, pulling her blanket over her face. “Now let me sleep.”

“We have a meeting tomorrow,” he reminds her. “You can sleep inside.”

“I’m not walking through my own lobby looking like this.”

Adrien chuckles. “You look fine, Chlo.”

“Drive around to the back,” she says, waving her hand in a general direction while still not coming out from under the blanket. “I’ll just take the private elevator.”

It’s expected of her, really. Chloe’s always been image-conscious, and, with the rumors currently circulating about her, he can see why she’d had a private elevator installed to get to the penthouse. “Okay,” he resigns, turning back to the wheel. “But I’m helping you with your bags.”

Chloe slowly sits up, smoothing over the frizzes that have developed in her blonde hair while she slept. “Always such a gentleman.”

Adrien drives them around to the back, and finds a service door situated between two large dumpsters. “Is this it?” he asks, skeptically, expecting something a little more _glamourous_ from Chloe.

“Well, if I encrusted it with diamonds, it wouldn’t be a _secret_ private elevator now, would it?” Chloe responds, taking his hand as he helps her and her blankets out of the car. Her blanket is wrapped around her shoulders like some very large expensive fur. It reminds him of when they used to play as royalty when they were tiny. Her face still looks so soft when it’s surrounded by all that blanket. Even perfectly contoured cheekbones can’t hide the ghosts of innocence.

“It really wouldn’t,” he affirms, opening the trunk of her car and lifting out one of her two suitcases. “Why’d you bring all this stuff if you were just picking me up?”

“Hey, if I was going to see one vineyard, I was going to see them all. _Your_ vineyard just happened to be at the end of my month long wine tour.”

“Aww, Chlo,” he teases. “You scheduled a whole wine tour because you wanted to see me?”

“Shut up,” she mumbles, taking the handle of the other suitcase. “ _Some of us_ have ice cold reputations to uphold.”

He doesn’t ask her if she’s going to take the out she’s been given to change her reputation. He doesn’t ask her how many times she’s snuck back into the hotel with this elevator. She can answer all of those questions on her own, when she’s ready.

She obviously isn’t now, though. He can tell just by the fact that her nails are unpainted. Try as she must, some things are still slipping through the cracks. For now, the best he can do is just be a quiet, comforting presence by her side.

Also, he’s already offered the _other_ out she can take. The press haven’t seen enough of him, lately. It’s the least he can do.

 

* * *

 

 

The domed ceiling of the Paris airport really _is_ beautiful, Marinette decides, pulling out her phone to take a picture for reference. And that pattern would work really well in that dress she’s making for the police ball—

“Psst, Mari,” Nino whispers, nudging her shoulder with his. “Alya’s flight just got in. She should be coming through any second. Stop designing.”

“I’m not—This isn’t designing,” Marinette stutters. “I’m just … taking a picture for later, when I _will_ be designing.”

“Sure, Mare-Bear. And I’m _just_ listening to this song. Nothing final-project-related going on here. _Nope._ ”

Marinette hits him with her phone. “Shut up! I _see her!_ ”

She leaves Nino where he stands, and rushes over to the woman walking towards baggage claim, talking into a tape recorder. Alya Césaire is a sight to behold, black trench coat billowing out behind her like Batman’s cape. She looks _powerful._ Which, Marinette supposes, she is, considering she’s now working at the _New York Times_.

Alya just barely looks up as Marinette approaches, but she blasts her with a full force hug anyway.

There’s something especially wonderful about a good hug, and Alya’s always been the best at giving them. They’re tight, and safe, and sometimes, like now, Marinette accidentally picks her up and swings her around because she can get carried away when she’s excited.

“Buff Mari strikes again,” Nino says, from behind them. Marinette pulls away to watch as Alya pulls Nino into a hug as well. “Long time no see, Als.”

Somehow, Marinette gets pulled into this hug as well.

They’re an odd trio, these three, filled with a little—no, a _lot_ —of history. As far as Marinette knows, they’re also the only ones who can make Alya scream like she’s screaming now. Some people are starting to look over.

As usual, all coolness was lost the minute they saw each other.

“How _are_ you two?” Alya asks, when they all finally break. “Tell me _everything._ Nino, is Professor Snobby McSnob still giving you a hard time? Mari, how _is_ old Grumpy Gabe? Rumor has it they’ve finally recognized your talents at something _other_ than fetching coffee over there?”

“Alya,” Marinette starts, “your tape recorder is still on.”

“Oops,” Alya smiles. “Sorry, I’m trying to work on my exposés on boring things, since that seems to be all I’ll be writing for the next few years. You know, here I am, having been the single-handed best source for information on Paris’ heroes, with a book about to be published, and they have me over there writing _exciting_ pieces on the price of dirty water dogs.”

“I’m sure it’s just a matter of time,” Marinette reassures her, grabbing one of Alya’s bags. “I mean, even Ladybug didn’t start out with all of Paris worshipping her.”

“Well, at least the _last one_ didn’t,” Nino mutters, only to get elbowed by Marinette. “I _mean_ ,” he clarifies, “yeah, Alya! Stick it to the man! Start a revolution! Surely then they’ll at least let you write on like, quantity of bottle caps or something.”

“Okay,” Alya smirks. “You two have been playing too much Fallout again, haven’t you?”

“It’s not _that_ much—”

“Yep.” Nino cuts her off. “Live fast, die young, bad girls do it well, I always say.”

“And I see the quoting song lyrics thing is still going on,” Alya says. “Glad to see neither of you have changed that much since last year.”

“Yeah,” Marinette affirms. “Same apartment, same jokes, same secret—”

“What Marinette is trying to say, Alya,” Nino continues, his voice much louder than before, throwing his arms around the two of them and steering them towards the exit, “is that we’re really glad to have you back.”

Alya smiles, eyes wide behind her glasses. “I’m really glad to _be_ back.”

 

* * *

 

 

The cafe is quiet.

All wonderful stone tiles and handcrafted wooden tables. There’s art from local artists on the walls (Marinette thinks she spotted Nathanaël’s name up there a time or two). The staff is all incredibly polite, and Marinette’s found a friend in the manager, Stacey, who bonded with her over crêpes and baking in general. She’s not quite as skilled as her parents, but she knows her way around a roll as well as the next girl.

It’s a wonderful, secluded cafe. The patrons mostly keep to themselves. There’s soft indie music coming from the speakers on the walls. It’s really a beautiful haven.

“YOU TWO DID WHAT?” Alya’s screams echo off the stone tiles and beautiful handcrafted tables. The university student in the corner looks up from their laptop. Marinette meets their eyes and they give her a death glare. She goes back to looking at her breakfast.

Nino leans over the table and starts pointing out the tracklist, but Alya doesn’t really seem to be listening. She just keeps staring at the title of the CD Nino just handed her. Looks like he’d gone with Marinette’s suggestion after all.

“Look, Alya, we’re sorry we didn’t tell you sooner,” Marinette starts. “It’s just, that was the month that you were going radio silent and at first I didn’t want to disturb you and then I just … forgot?”

“YOU FORGOT FOR THREE YEARS!”

“I mean, technically,” Nino points out, “it was only like two years and six months, but I can see why you’d round up.”

Marinette gives him her best approximation of the student’s death glare. He laughs.

“Anyway, see, I put _Cool_ by Gwen Stefani on there because—”

“Look, Mari, Nino,” Alya cuts him off, finally lowering her volume to a reasonable level. “I’m not _mad_ , just _disappointed_. You didn’t think I’d be like, hurt, or anything, did you? Because, Nino, babe, we dated like five years ago. And Mari, _of course_ I’d want you to be happy!”

“But…” Marinette says, knitting her brow. “Didn’t you mention that ‘girl code’ thing that one time…”

Alya waves off her question. “That was just for something unforgivable, like me dating Adrien or you going after one of my younger brothers. I figured you guys would happen at some point, with you two rooming together and all.”

Marinette groans. “Please say you don’t buy into the whole _When Harry Met Sally_ thing.”

“Of course I don’t,” Alya assures her. “I’m a twenty-first century woman, after all. If I didn’t, then my good pal Henderson in editing would have a lot more to worry about than whether or not his husband’s choice in baby names is too old-fashioned. Or I’d be dating _Adrien_. Then the girl code would _really_ be broken.”

The first time his name had been brought up, it was fine. Marinette was used to it. People were bound to ask her questions; after all, she was working for his father. She’d learned how to calm her breathing and swallow the past and just deal with it. Usually it worked fine.

But the second time Alya says his name, she says it like Marinette’s feelings are still there, like she’s _expecting_ a different reaction. Which is _obviously_ wrong. Obviously. Marinette’s just fine. She hasn’t seen him in _years._ Sure, she’s accepted Gabriel’s recent invitations to the Easter brunch and such with maybe a hope to see him, but that makes sense. It’s just because they’re _friends._

Or, they _were_ friends. She doesn’t know if she can legitimately call someone she hasn’t seen in five years and whose life she only keeps up on through social media and mutual friends a _friend._

Well, that’s not true. Sometimes he stops by the apartment when he’s in town to talk to Nino. It’s almost always when she’s out, though. When she’s stitching or drawing or just in a meeting. She supposes it’s best that way; he doesn’t have to see her and she doesn’t have to see him.

One time, though, one time she caught him. He’d been leaving and she’d been coming and they’d both stopped cold in the hallway and just stared at each other.

Suddenly, she was back at the collège, fourteen years old again and unable to speak even one word to him. He’d raised his hand in a wave and she’d smiled back. It was only later that she wondered if he’d noticed the black umbrella she was carrying. She wondered if he’d recognized it as his own.

“Why’d you expect us to happen, then?” Nino asks, interrupting Marinette’s thoughts.

“Easy,” Alya smirks. “The story of how we got together?”

“What?” they both ask.

“Nino was trying to ask you out when we got trapped in that cage together, Mari, remember? Feelings you don’t act on inevitably just pop up years later. It’s science.”

“You’re a _journalist_ ,” Nino complains. “You know nothing about science.”

“Says the musician.”

“Okay, okay,” Marinette interrupts. “All of us are bad at math. Can we just agree on that?”

“Not all of us,” Alya mutters. “Some of us are great at physics.”

Yeah. Some of them are. Some of them are so great at physics that they’d move five hours away to be able to study it.

“How is our prodigal son?” she asks, the question obviously directed towards Nino, since Marinette’s taken to staring out the window of the cafe, letting her eyes glaze over as she watches the soft rain outside. She can feel the black umbrella leaning up against her like her legs are bare, instead of covered soft jeans. It’s articulate, it’s painful in a soft way.

These days, everything relating to him is painful in a soft way.

“Ah, he’s good,” Nino answers. “Really into American folk music right now. I’m worried he’s going to run off into the woods and become a hermit.”

“Or a lonely cat man,” Alya jokes.

“That is always a possibility. We should ask if he’s adopting one anytime soon.”

“I don’t know if he would,” Marinette finally interjects. “It would probably just remind him of…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but they all understand. Just the idea of Adrien snuggling some small black cat to his face stings. The wound’s so old and yet it still hurts so much.

“Damn,” Nino says softly. “I didn’t even think about that. It’s gotta be worse for the two of you than for the rest of us. They were like family—”

“Can we just… not talk about it?” Marinette asks, not really up for crying at this cafe, not wanting to taint this special place with memories of the past.

“Okay, Mari,” Alya murmurs, hand coming to wrap around Marinette’s shoulders in a sort of half-hug. “We don’t have to. All happy thoughts from here on out.”

No one brings up the fact that they’re _going to_ have to talk about it soon. Soon being tomorrow. Tomorrow when they’d all promised they’d face their demons.

Marinette wonders if they’ll buy it if she’s late.


	2. What If I Fall And Hurt Myself?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reunion everyone's been waiting for happens and I smack all of you over the head with another heap of angst ice bucket challenge style.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm blown away by the response to the last chapter. Wow, guys, thanks a lot for all your support of this fic.  
> That being said, hopefully thing will get a little bit less _hazy_ this chapter, for those of you who were very confused in the comments. There's one more part to this, which is really just a full resolution, not so much an answering of questions.  
>  As always, thanks for reading.

The statue commemorating the battle against Hawkmoth is ten feet tall, according to the plaque at the front.

Of course, only Hawkmoth himself actually reaches that height. He towers above the five of them now, a menacing figure illuminated by the setting sun, mid akumatization. Water falls around his eyes in a butterfly shape, and he almost seems to be floating on a hoard of stone butterflies.

“That’s not how it happened,” a voice says, and Adrien turns to find Chloe walking up to him, hands in the pockets of her light washed jeans. Her color palette seems a little more muted than usual—the yellow of her blouse so close to white it almost doesn’t exist. He can understand that. There’s a reason he didn’t wear any black today.

“I know,” Adrien says. “I was there.”

“No,” Chloe continues, and her expression grows angrier as she goes. “You don’t understand. You weren’t here. Someone wanted to commemorate the battle, but… Our resident Ladybug wasn’t talking and our Chat Noir was gone and _someone_ had to step up and tell the press the story.”

“Chloe, I—”

“I’m not done,” she cuts him off, but her voice gets quieter. “I didn’t want to implicate him, you know, so I changed it. I fixed it. It’s better, now, I think. It’s better this way.”

There’s a question in her voice, like she’s asking for permission for something that’s already done. Or maybe she’s asking for forgiveness. He can’t tell.

Adrien hasn’t seen what the rest of them are like now yet, but he assumes it really _is_ better this way. He’s certainly glad of it, even if it means he doesn’t feel welcome in this city so much anymore.

Then she asks the question, but she turns away from him, toward the street to do it. “It’s better this way, isn’t it?”

“I certainly like to think so,” Alya Césaire affirms, stepping up to where they stand by the fountain. “Mostly because it’s a better end to the story. Everyone likes the idea that Hawkmoth was defeated in a burst of light, that the darkness was destroyed where it sat until there was nothing left but a man. No one wants to think it might return.”

Chloe laughs at that, bitterly. “Well, that was a nice thought for the few years it lasted, wasn’t it? Gave my dad the final term he wanted. Really let him go out with a _bang_.”

“People are going to start asking questions, you know,” Alya says. “They already are. You should hear the theories I hear over in the states. Apparently Hawkmoth was part of the Illuminati.”

“Well,” Adrien mutters, “knowing the truth might not convince them otherwise.”

He’s never asked about Alya’s time in the states. He _has_ read her articles, though. Every one of them. They’re all fairly mundane compared to what she would put on the Ladyblog back when they were in high school, but he doesn’t mind. His English could always use some work, and simpler articles are easier on the mind. It keeps him from mixing words up with Spanish.

“Did I hear someone say Illuminati?” someone calls out, and Adrien turns to find his old best friend coming out of a taxi. “Because, I don’t care what you say, Alya. That’s the _least_ real of all the conspiracy theories out there.”

Adrien didn’t think he’d be so relieved to see him.

He looks pretty much the same; same high top sneakers, same headphones around his neck, same carefree attitude. His hair’s different though. He seems to have shaved off the sides and let the top grow. It’s edgier, newer, older.

He throws his arms around him, and he can feel Nino’s breath on his neck when he starts to laugh. “I missed you, dude,” Nino says, voice soft in the moment.

“Missed you too.” _So much._

They step back from each other and Adrien watches as Chloe greets the both of them, giving a little salute with two of her fingers when she sees Nino.

“Alya,” Adrien starts, joining the group at the edge of the monument again. “Which story is the one in your book?”

She turns to him with a smile, dark eyes flashing with something mysterious. “Now, Agreste, you’re going to have to buy it to find out.”

“Oh, come on,” Chloe complains. “I’m sure you already told _someone else_. Why not just tell us? _We’re_ the ones you’re going to jeopardize if it’s the truth, after all.”

“I would hardly say jeopardize,” Alya refutes, giving Chloe a look. “After all, _Queen Bee_ hasn’t been active in years.”

“The teeny-boppers, then.” Chloe waves her nail file towards the Eiffel Tower for clarity.

Alya sighs. “Fine, I’ll tell you.” Chloe’s face lights up. “ _Maybe._ If you play nice, you’ll get to know what’s in my book.”

“What’s this about Alya’s book?”

Adrien doesn’t even have to turn to know who it is. He’d recognize that voice anywhere. It’s the choice between a stone approximation of her face, though, and the real thing. It’s been so long since he’s seen the real thing.

Marinette stands on the curb, blue eyes fixed past him, at the statue. As far as he knows, she hasn’t seen him yet, or maybe she’s just not looking. Her hair’s longer than he remembers, almost to the bottom of her rib cage in a fishtail braid.

She’s holding a notebook in her hand, and somehow Adrien knows it has to be her new sketchbook, the one that he’s heard magic just flows out of. The edges of her lace sleeves just barely brush the cover as she walks over.

“Hey, Marinette,” he manages, and the silence is less a comfort than an agony.

* * *

 

Marinette watches Nino walk up to the group, and tries to find the courage to do the same. He hugs Adrien— _Adrien_ , who’s taller now and wearing green flannel and big boots and looks so out of place within the tall, old buildings of Paris.

She wants to sketch him, like she used to. She wants to take out her notebook right now and re-commit that jaw to memory. She wants a lot of things she’s not going to allow herself to have.

In addition to the famous interpretation of Hawkmoth, there are five other statues at this site. Queen Bee, Chat Noir, Ladybug, Jade Turtle, and Volpina, left to right. They stand, backs to her, blasting water into the air in the stone Hawkmoth’s direction.

The real heroes of that day, the haggard young adults who haven’t quite been the same since, stand a little bit in front of the monument. Marinette wonders if they know they’ve lined up in the same order as the statues. A perfect set of four waiting for the last point to the star.

And, that last point happens to be her. She might as well go now; she’s already waited as long as she possibly can.

Marinette tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and steps out, ballet flats uncertain on the pavement.

Alya’s reprimanding Chloe. About what, Marinette doesn’t know. They seem to be talking about the book, though.

Marinette’s read the story front to back multiple times now. The pile of papers that makes up Alya’s manuscript sits on her bedside table. It’s something she needs now, the way she needs food and water. She needs to recount the story, needs to know that it was real and it happened and everyone didn’t just drift away for no reason.

She still remembers those few weeks before the takedown, when they’d finally started working together cohesively. When the masks had all come off and they’d laughed about it and eaten junk food together on the rooftops and complained about finals. She’d give almost anything to go back to that.

The unrealistic hope that they could overcome some great evil and set the world free is still better than the reality she faces every day now; that victory only tastes sweet for a day or two.

“What’s this about Alya’s book?” she asks, stepping forward towards the statue, taking her place in the lineup.

Everyone turns toward her, and now they really look like their statues. She’s already said her hellos to her roommate and her best friend, but not to the two people on her left. Her Chat Noir… She can’t even look at him.

He can look at her, though, and she can feel his green eyes stare through her.

“Hey, Marinette,” he says, and the grey clouds above them rumble.

 

Thunder cracks.

They’re eighteen again, standing at the school, barely able to look at each other and he’s screaming and she’s yelling and _HOW CAN HE NOT UNDERSTAND?_

She knows he did what he thought was right, but she did what she thought was right, too. It was the only way. Can’t he just accept that?

 

“Hi, Adrien,” she manages, trying not to think about the way he’d looked at her after that day. The things he’d said about living with the choices she made.

_You should’ve given him a second chance!_

_I GAVE him a second chance!_

_Not like that, never like that._

She’s been living with her choices. He hasn’t. He’s been five hours away in the vineyards studying science and acting like all the magic that happened here didn’t.

“I can’t believe it’s been five years,” Nino says, and Marinette’s attention is drawn to the statue once again.

She’s tempted to cry out to the figures in stone, to yell that they don’t know what they’re doing, that they’re _just kids, doesn’t anyone see that?_

She’s tempted to tell her stone image that she could have just waited another second, she could’ve been a little easier on him, she could have understood.

But she didn’t know how painful it was to lose someone you loved like that, back then. She didn’t understand the way it carves you out and you have to live with this hollowness in your heart.

“My wife, Cadence,” Gabriel Agreste sometimes tells her, when it’s late and he’s feeling a little nostalgic, blue eyes glassed over like he’s trying to remember something. “She left us when my son was very young. She was never a muse of mine, although she often asked to be, but, Miss Dupain-Cheng, there’s a lot of inspiration that can come from a loss like that.”

Marinette never tells him she knows all too well, that she understands now.

“Would you change it, if you could?” Alya asks the four of them, voice almost a whisper but not quite.

“Being a superhero?” Chloe wonders. “Never. Those were the best years of my life. Don’t tell the garden club that, though. As far as they’re concerned I live in a constant state of _peaking_.”

“No,” Alya clarifies. “Not _that._ Although, Chloe, I’m surprised the garden club’s opinion of you is still such a concern. I mean. That day. Would you change your decision?”

This time she _knows_ Adrien’s staring at her. She knows he asked her this once before, when the sky was as dark as it is today. He doesn’t know all the ways her answer has changed as the years have gone by. He doesn’t know that he’s the reason why.

“I would have waited,” Marinette says, finally. She glances at Adrien’s face out of the corner of her eye. He looks so lost and sad. “But, you know, only hindsight is 20/20.”

“It’s a little late for questions like this,” Adrien says, and his voice is hoarse.

“I’m sorry.” Marinette turns to him. “I know I wrecked a lot that day.”

There are definitely tears in his eyes now. “I forgive you. I forgave you a long time ago, but, Marinette, he was my _father…_ ”

Chloe comes up from behind him, squeezing one of his broad shoulders in sympathy. Marinette wishes she could do the same. “He’s _still_ your father.”

“But he doesn’t _know._ There are things about us, about _me_ that he’ll never remember, and it’s all because I didn’t intervene and, Marinette, he would _hate me._ ”

“He doesn’t hate you,” she assures him, overcoming the stiff barrier between them and stepping forward to touch his arm. “He could never hate you. He misses you, sometimes. We all do. But I don’t think any of us could ever hate you.”

“That’s right,” Chloe affirms, and even she has tears in her eyes. “You’re too pretty to be hated.”

“Yeah, man.” Nino comes over to their side of the fountains, messing up Adrien’s hair affectionately. “Paris isn’t the same without its resident Black Cat.”

Alya also walks over, and Marinette begins the battle with her own tear ducts when she sees Alya’s started to give in. “Well, technically,” she corrects. “There’s a _new_ Black Cat.”

“There’s a new _all of us_ ,” Chloe says. “Tiny kids who haven’t the slightest clue what they’re doing. I’ve tried to intervene with Bee, but Pherzz won’t let me anywhere near her. Something about “sanctity of the learning curve” I don’t know.”

“You’ve seen her?” Adrien suddenly looks up from the ground, green eyes filled with all the intensity of the setting sun. “Have you seen…”

“If I did, I would have called you.” Chloe’s smile is sad. They’re all sad. “Never doubt that.”

“It’s hard to know who I am without him, you know what I mean?” Adrien asks, and they all nod. “I’m not who I was before, but I’m not the same person I was when he was in my life. I just can’t watch someone else—”

There’s a shape, a shadow, on the rooftops across from them. One by one they pop up until it looks like there are five little ghosts up there. Then the legs come, dangling off the edge of the rooftop, and Marinette has to blink to make sure she’s actually seeing something real and not just another memory.

Five kids, decked out in full costume, stare down at them with curious eyes. Marinette wonders if they know who it is they’re watching. None of them really _look_ like their statue selves, since the artist who made the monument wasn’t in the loop, and she knows sometimes people can be blind even with the masks on, but… The way they’re looking at them…

“Hey, Bee!” Chloe yells, and Marinette shoots her a glare. The kid in yellow gives a ‘What? Me?’ gesture and Chloe nods. “The scepter doubles pretty well as a baseball bat, just saying!”

“ _Chloe,_ ” Alya grumbles. “Leave them be.”

Adrien laughs at the unintentional pun. Marinette shoots her glare towards him, instead. “Yeah,” he says. “They should _bee_ alone. I don’t think you’re _bee_ ’ing that helpful.”

“Shut up.” Chloe hits his arm. “I’m trying to fix their form.”

“Adrien’s right,” Marinette decides. “We should let them figure it out on their own. After all, that’s what we had to do. Bad decisions are part of the job description. Let them have their fun. It’s not our turn anymore.”

Marinette looks back up at the kids on the rooftop. There’s a girl with braids in the red and black spots. She tries to convey all the wisdom she has in a single look. All the things she wishes she could tell her past self but can’t.

“Aren’t you guys worried about the new Hawkmoth?” Alya asks. “Since you still live in the city and everything?”

“Nah,” Nino assures her, staring at the girl with braces who’s currently decked out in a shell. “They’ll protect us.”


	3. If I Forgot Who I Am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marinette and Adrien make amends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we've reached the end of this. Thank you to all of you for all your support throughout this.  
> Someone suggested that I write some more in this specific 'verse and I really like that idea. I'll keep it open so I can come back and explore it anytime I want, but there's no guarantees since it all really depends on my writing mojo and I have two other multichapter fics in progress right now.  
> I just want to say that I know some French miraculous fan made a post that said "Chatte Noir" shouldn't be used because of it's... less than favorable connotation in France but I couldn't find it to find the alternatives so just like... bear with me. If anyone knows what I'm talking about and can link me to the post I'll change it to whatever's better. Sorry about that for my French-speaking readers.

Adrien stares up at the skyscraper, hesitant to walk through the doors.

 _GABRIEL,_ it reads in flowing purple script on the sign next to the rotating glass doors. He hasn’t been here in so long. He rarely even came here as a child, since it was more for the putting together of the magazines he modeled in than where the photos were actually taken. Still, he knows the way to his father’s office by heart. One right, two lefts, up three flights of stairs, take the golden elevator up to the 25th floor, and it’s the door at the end of the hall.

He begins to walk towards the office, but, as he enters the elevator, he changes his mind. Adrien reads the sign next to the keypad, scanning for a certain place where he knows he’ll find who he’s looking for.

On the way up, a few people go in and out. None of them really recognize him, but he supposes that’s for the best. He doesn’t want his father to know he’s here until he steps into that office himself.

Adrien steps out on the 21st floor not quite sure where his feet are taking him. He wanders through the cubicles, peering at the people. He’s searching for someone. He’s searching for someone to stop his wandering.

He’s been wandering for so, so long.

The cubicle he stops at is neatly organized, with lots of pink and rose gold accents on a white desk. The notebook he remembers from the other day lies open. Adrien stares at the dress in question. It’s white fading into purple, butterflies all along the sleeves. She’s titled it _Amnesia_. Adrien can clearly see his father’s notes on the sides, praising it wholeheartedly.

He wonders if it’s some sort of apology, a reconciliation of sorts between the two of them for an event he can’t quite remember and an event she’s trying to forget. Her words from last night certainly make it seem like that.

The woman at the cubicle next to hers gives Adrien a sly smile. “She’s over in the fabric room,” she says, and points to the room with glass walls over in the corner.

Sure enough, he sees Marinette’s silhouette, hunched over a pile of fabrics, through the glass. Adrien thanks her and walks over.

“A-Adrien,” she stutters, and he smiles because it’s so reminiscent of their time at the collège. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs his shoulders and hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. “I thought I’d find you here.”

“You could have just come by the apartment, you know. Nino’s on dinner tonight. I think he’s making mushroom soup…”

“As tempting as that sounds,” he starts, leaning against one of the walls so he can better see the fabric she’s working on. “I actually came to see my father.”

“Oh.” She seems surprised. “Oh, um. That’s good. That’s good, right?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “It’s good. I figure I should let him know I’m in town.”

“What are you doing _here_ , then?” she asks, going back to finger through the stacks of lace.

“I wanted to see you.”

This time, Marinette’s the one to laugh. “You can _see me_ for as long as you’re in town. Why visit me at work?”

“You were on the way?” he tries.

She gives him that look she always used to give him when they were still Ladybug and Chat Noir and she was trying to get him to stop flirting with her and be serious. If he really thinks about it, the now and the then aren’t all that different.

“I don’t know,” Adrien confesses. “My feet just kind of … led me here.”

“Well,” Marinette says, “if you want to talk you’re gonna have to watch me work.”

“Can I _whistle_?” he tries, just to see if it’ll get a smile out of her.

“You know, just because I no longer have the yoyo, that doesn’t mean I’m not prepared to shove you out of the window.”

Adrien puts his hands up. “Okay, I won’t whistle while you work. Too bad. You’d make a very pretty Snow White.”

It’s always nice to know he can still make her entire face go bright red.

* * *

 

Marinette is trying to focus on her work, she really is, but she’s about five seconds away from calling security and having them take her boss’s son to his father for a talking to because she is _trying to work here_ and him constantly breathing down her neck isn’t working.

It has nothing to do with the fact that Alya was right; feelings you don’t act on can and will pop up years later when you least expect them to.

It’s not like she didn’t _try_ to act on them back then. There was just the whole superhero thing and the whole anxiety thing and then there was the whole thing with Hawkmoth and…

There was that conversation at the school. The thing that exploded their friendship into a billion tiny pieces and left Marinette to pick her heart up from where it was shattered on the ground in the swirling wind. Just a little thing. Not that big of a deal.

Except, when he’s standing like this, with his arm basically around her if she’d just step back a bit, Marinette really has to accept that it _is_ a big deal, because it’s the gap between them, and she needs to bridge it before either of them says something they shouldn’t.

“Did you mean what you said that day?” she asks. “When you told me all my success would be built on a lie?”

Adrien steps back, like her words have actually physically hurt him. “Jeez, Mari, have you been? Have you been thinking that this entire time?”

“Did. You. Mean. It?” she asks him again, more serious this time, because she needs an answer. She’s needed an answer since she first got the internship. Every promotion’s felt like a curse; a bad side effect of her acting without thinking. His words kept echoing back to her, even after she thought he’d forgotten them.

It looks like maybe he has.

“ _Of course not._ ” Adrien’s brows are knit and he’s staring at her so intensely she thinks she might dissolve, but she holds her ground. “We both… I think we both said things that day that we regret. We were hurting. We were _kids_ , Mari.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.” Marinette thinks of the first sketch she’d done after that fight; a leather jacket with stitching like veins up and down the arms. Or like claw marks. Like a cat determined to tear himself apart.

She’d scrapped it, but she still remembers.

“You hurt me too,” he whispers, and all the things she’d said that she’d tried to forget come rushing back to her. Things she’d told him he should’ve done. Dreams of his she’d crushed.

“I’m sorry,” Marinette murmurs.

“I’m sorry too.”

“You know,” she gives a bitter smile, “it’s funny. It took me not understanding what losing someone you love can do to you for it to happen to me.”

Adrien’s eyes grow wide. “You—you _loved_ me?” The words sound like breaths on his lips.

“Can we not talk about this here anymore?” Marinette asks. Her co-workers are starting to stare, and she’d rather they not figure out she was making love confessions to the boss’s son at her cubicle.

Well, not really love confessions, but, with Marinette’s record, she’ll take it.

* * *

 

When she gets back to the apartment, Nino’s not there. Alya’s not there either, which has her suspicious.

What she does find, however, is Adrien Agreste, waiting in her hallway with flowers. Lavender petals the color of the lace on the dress she’s designing for next season. They’re so similar to Hawkmoth’s butterflies, but she supposes that’s the point.

“What are you doing here?” she asks him, but it’s teasing this time.

“You said I should come to your apartment instead of your office.” He swings out the bouquet. “I brought flowers.”

“I see that.”

“Come on.” Adrien holds his arm out. “Walk with me.”

* * *

 

They stroll through the streets, arm in arm, and Marinette wonders what the flowers are for. She suspects they’re not _for her._ He hasn’t given them to her, really. He just swings them back and forth as they walk.

So, they’ve got to be going somewhere.

Marinette starts to piece it together when she finds herself walking down the same street she used to run every day to get to school. The collège isn’t housing students for the summer, so the traffic isn’t running in their direction.

They are alone on the street, under the dark grey clouds. It’s better this way, she thinks. Without the sunlight it almost looks like they’re performing a funeral march.

And, in a way, they are. Their steps are solemn and precise. There’s meaning in every movement.

Marinette points out the tree Chloe had carved her name in when they were fifteen. Adrien gives a quick smile.

“Are the tabloids right about her?” she asks, too scared to approach the subject with Chloe herself. “Is she really—”

“Sleeping with that Spanish diplomat? Yeah…”

“Is she happy?”

Marinette had never cared much for Chloe’s happiness before they’d been forced to work on a team together. Now, though, she enjoys the small moments when she can make her smile. Even if it’s just through giving her orders a little special treatment.

Adrien looks up at the sky, still lacking sunlight. A drop of rain falls on his face. He flinches. “She’s happy,” he answers.

“Good,” Marinette decides. “We all deserve some happiness.”

More water starts coming down, first drizzle and then full on rain. Adrien tugs on her hand and they both run under the cover of the school’s roof.

Then, through some magic of remembering, he steps out into the rain, holding the lavender flowers up so the top of the bouquet is facing the bursting clouds. Water runs down the purple petals.

“What are you doing?” Marinette asks with a laugh. “You’re going to get a cold.”

“Just humor me,” Adrien responds.

He takes a deep breath and then looks back at her, green eyes innocently wide and filled with sincerity.

“I want you to know I really meant to stay in touch,” he starts, and something about it looks so familiar. “I’ve never been that mad before. I’ve never hurt like that before. All of it for me was… was new.”

He smiles at her, shrugging his shoulders up and down, and then he swirls the bouquet back over to her, and she recognizes the movement. He’d done the same thing so many years ago with a black umbrella.

One she’s really regretting not bringing.

Marinette gasps, she can’t help it. It’s all just as beautiful as it was back then. Even his sopping wet hair. Her hand nervously reaches forward, almost jolting back when their fingers touch, before wrapping around the stem of the bouquet.

This time, there’s no umbrella to close around her, no possible way for her to make a fool out of herself, but he laughs anyway. They both do, because it’s all so old and yet still so important to her and she never would’ve thought it was important to him as well.

“Will you accept my apology, my lady?” he asks her, despite the fact that neither of them have worn masks in years.

“Of course, _chaton_ ,” she answers. “I already have.”

Then Marinette leaves the shelter of the roof and steps out into the rain, letting her hair get as wet as his.

They leave the bouquet there; a quiet offering to their childhood, to falling in love for the first time, and for all that happened before they lost their way.

* * *

 

Chatte Noire hops down from the roof of the collège, black boots almost slipping on the wet pavement.

“You sure it was them?” Ladybug asks as she follows her down, rappelling on her yo-yo like it’s a grappling hook.

“Positive,” her partner says. “We saw them at the statue too, remember?” She picks up the bouquet of pretty purple flowers. “And, besides. Do these not look like Hawkmoth’s butterflies?”

“I don’t know about that,” Ladybug responds, leaning over to get a closer look. “Does your kwami ever tell you anything about the old holders?”

“Not really. He just looks sad a lot when I bring it up. Something must’ve happened.”

“Mine sometimes hints at something bad. She used to cry about it a lot. Something about … ending a cycle? Something about forgiveness?”

“Do you think these are important?” Chatte Noire asks, sniffing the petals.

“I think they’re just flowers. Pretty flowers, but only flowers.”

“Well, in that case…” Chatte Noire smiles as she presents the flowers to Ladybug in a flourish. “For you, my lady; the prettiest flower of them all.”

“Shut up,” Ladybug mutters, blushing.

She takes the flowers anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, guys. You're all an amazing audience. I hope this ending makes all of you happy, although it's pretty bittersweet :).  
> Your comments have been absolutely lovely to read.

**Author's Note:**

> Um. So. That's part 1.  
> This was around the time when I looked at my word count and I was like HOLY SHIT I can't make this just a oneshot no one's even MET UP YET. So, my wonderful beta Perce and I talked it over and we were like, well, you can always make it a three parter. So, it is.  
> This _is_ the longest of the three parts, however. Mostly because I have no sense of pacing whatsoever.  
>  But, anyway, how did you like it? Am I being too vague? Don't worry, all will be revealed (mostly, I think). Are you mad at me yet?


End file.
